lima syndrome
by thefudge is grumpy
Summary: The Lima syndrome is the phenomenon in which abductors develop sympathy for their captives, named after the abduction of the Japanese Ambassador's Residence in Lima, Peru in 1996 by members of a terrorist group. Written for Klonnie Week 2k17.


**klonnie week** : day ii. | **TROPES**

 _lima syndrome_ \- def. the phenomenon in which abductors develop sympathy for their captives, named after the abduction of the Japanese Ambassador's Residence in Lima, Peru in 1996 by members of a terrorist group

* * *

"my grandmother is going to kill you."

this is what she tells him as he fastens the polyethylene rope around her ankles.

his fingers linger on her calves, pulling the leg to see if she can get out of the trap. he notes in passing that the flesh is firm and the muscles are strong, stronger than one would expect of a pampered witch princess.

"let's not get ahead of ourselves, love."

bonnie looks down at him. he might've been handsome if his jaw didn't stick out so much. it's as if he has a grudge on the world.

"i don't know what you think you're accomplishing, but this valerian root won't hold long. i'll get my powers back…"

"and i'll keep injecting you," he supplies with a crooked grin. "pity it doesn't shut you up as well."

she struggles a little in his grasp, trying to kick him in vain. "you won't get away with this."

"that's what they all say," he remarks moodily.

* * *

she's surprised to see that he's taken her to what looks like an airbase.

"you can't possibly hope to get me on a plane as your captive."

klaus - she's heard his henchmen call him that and she found it oddly upper-crust for a kidnapper - tilts her head up with a brush of his fingers. "only private jets for her highness."

and indeed, the landing strip is bare except for a gleaming silver beast, the kind high-stakes ambassadors usually fly in. whoever has ordered her capture has ample means.

"i hope they're paying you well," she mutters as he guides her towards the tarpaulin.

* * *

he must admit that she's acting very level-headed for one so young. she is calm and thoughtful, her panic having receded to a private place in her mind. from time to time she will clench her fingers, as if calling out to her fettered magic, but she's doing her best not to make a scene. she's realized there's no audience except him and his men. and his men are worse than him.

"you're a werewolf," she says, as they fly over the panama channel.

she's half-asleep (it's been two very long days) and her eyes have turned a darker shade of green, like deep pools at the bottom of the ocean.

"i can sense it, even with my magic low," she mumbles, cradling her chin in her hand.

he leans back in his chair and smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes. "and what do you sense exactly, witch? my impure blood?"

"yes…" she mutters, eyelids closing against her will. "it smells like oranges…in the sun."

he's a little shaken despite his better judgement. he turns towards the window and avoids looking at her again. all these witches are the same - mystical fools with no damn sense in their heads.

an hour later he puts a small pillow under her head. he doesn't want her breaking her neck, does he?

* * *

they land at 3 am in no man's land and she's not entirely awake for the business of disembarking and walking over the pebbly ground to the nearby shack where a few men are waiting for them.

so, he has to carry her in his arms. he feels rather foolish at first. he hoists her up firmly over his shoulder, the smell of freesias and sweat invading his senses. but she keeps sliding off his body like a woodland nymph, so he hooks his hand around her shoulders and another under her legs, and carries her like a bride. she doesn't nestle into his chest. her head falls away from him. he stares at the length of her neck and listens to the throb of her pulse.

* * *

they spend half a day at the dilapidated motel outside the village. to anyone else's eyes, the building is abandoned. but inside, a small army of men are preparing for a ritual.

bonnie gradually understands the purpose of her abduction. she can feel the nervous energy in the air pouring down from the amazonian rainforest. they're only miles away from one of the temples.

she starts to cry laconically, tears running down her cheeks while her face remains a funeral mask.

the werewolf crouches down at her level. "you needn't cry. it will all be over soon."

"what do you care?" she snaps, and it's the first time she sounds bitter.

"i don't. but tears irk me."

she spits on his shoes. " _you_ irk me."

she's not likening him to oranges in the sun anymore, that's for sure. he smiles coolly. "it would be rather strange if i didn't."

bonnie looks away, disheartened. "you don't have to do this."

"ah, another thing they always say."

* * *

it's hot and sticky in the truck as they drive through the half-submerged jungle. there used to be a city here, many hundreds of years ago. now it's just vines and sticky leaves and bugs the size of your head. there's probably bones too, buried under the foliage.

he _hates_ the jungle. he hates the humidity, the smell, the pressure of it all. his head feels about to explode.

his men sit on the dumpster bed behind, holding machine guns over their shoulder. it's mostly for show, in case any unlucky humans crop up in a ten-mile radius. they don't really need them. their claws would sink into your heart before you had time to blink.

bonnie sits by his side, forehead leaning against the grimy window.

klaus hates the stifling silence so he turns on the radio, but the signal is warped in these parts of the forest and all he gets is truncated fragments of a popular ballad.

bonnie heaves a weary sigh. "it's my birthday today."

his hands stiffen on the wheel. "i know."

she laughs bitterly. " _right_ , it's gotta be my birthday for the ritual."

"well. happy birthday anyway."

he doesn't know why he says it. it's very daft, given the circumstances. he rubs the back of his neck. he can't stand the silence, so he presses on. "i don't know my actual birth day. no one can tell me, as no one can recall with certainty."

the witch raises her legs to her chest. she's not tied up anymore seeing as there's nowhere to run. she scratches the red welt on her arm where he injected her with the next to last dose of valerian. he's saving the biggest shot for the ritual.

"your parents probably wanted to forget the day you were born," she tells him callously.

"…i suppose i deserve that one."

she nods wearily. "you do. you're a disgrace."

"a disgrace?" he echoes, trying to keep his eyes on the road. "that's a bit much."

"we're both servants of the moon and instead of helping me, you're sending me to my death."

he scoffs. "both servants of the moon? no, little witch. you don't have to chain yourself when the moon calls for you."

bonnie shrugs. "maybe i do."

they don't speak again for the duration of the ride.

* * *

they spend a rainy night in a moldy tent on the side of a precipice where the ground is still relatively warm and dry.

she protests weakly at first that she should be given her own tent, that she's not about to make her escape and _die_ in the jungle, but he won't hear it. he knows her kind is "crafty".

"crafty?" she explodes with a laugh. "if i was such a wily creature, i'd have found a way to kill you by now."

klaus lets her words wash over him like the rain beating down on their tent.

there is hardly room for two people inside; her proximity is inevitable, but it's comforting too. he doesn't know if she feels the same, but it drives away the demons of the jungle.

he rolls down two sleeping bags.

bonnie watches him with a guarded look. "are you going to sleep too?"

he laughs. "of course not. i'd give you a prime opportunity to kill me, like you said."

"i doubt i could," she complains, looking around despondently. "i don't have my magic. i don't see any sharp objects around. and i don't think i'm strong enough to strangle you."

"oh, don't give up hope yet," he teases amiably, which makes her shiver uncomfortably. he removes his jacket. his t-shirt is stuck to his skin, exposing every line of his body. bonnie wonders if he can see her body through her thin dress and even thinner shawl. she folds her arms over her chest.

"you should rest for tomorrow," he tells her gently, but it's rather cruel.

"yeah, i should get my beauty sleep. i don't want to look bad on the pyre," she retorts, holding back a fresh wave of tears. he looks disturbed by her comment but can't bring himself to offer her any comfort.

they lie down, side by side, on the sleeping bags. bonnie stares up at the dirty canvas.

"i was going to…open a school for witches," she says softly, staring at the shadow of an insect on the side of the tent.

klaus turns slightly towards her. his bare arm accidentally brushes against hers.

"you wanted to teach?"

she nods, wiping her wet eyes quickly. "i wanted to help young girls like myself find their footing."

his thumb traces a few freckles on her elbow. she means to move away from his touch. she means to scold him. but she doesn't, because this is her last night alive and she won't deny herself this small human gesture.

"you'd be good at it."

bonnie scoffs. "you don't _know_ me. you have no idea what i'd be good at."

"maybe. but i'm a wolf. i can sense these things."

"that's superstition."

" _really_. a witch telling me about superstition." there's humor in his voice. she hates that she will probably think of that when the flames engulf her.

"well, it doesn't matter now, does it?" she bites back, wishing she could hold something to her chest and squeeze it tight.

and somehow, he reads her mind because he pulls her towards him. it's strange and unexpected - even to him - the way his fingers clench around her waist.

"what are you doing?" she asks quietly as her hands touch his chest tentatively.

he doesn't answer at first. he stares into her heart-shaped face, almost as if he's trying to memorize her features. his hand runs up and down her spine, leaving pleasant tremors in its wake. his eyes, she notes, have globs of amber in them. the sun made liquid.

"i want you to know, no one's paying me," he says at length.

"what?"

"it's my mother. she is the one who wants you dead. she wants to absorb your power."

bonnie's eyes widen. she clenches her fingers around his t-shirt. "your mother is _esther_? you're _esther's_ son?"

he nods gruffly, as if ashamed of the legacy.

bonnie is speechless for a moment. "but she - how -?"

"even the original witch makes mistakes," he replies bitterly. "my biological father is one."

she's overwhelmed by his confession. she doesn't know how to respond.

they stare at each other for several long minutes, pondering on each other's strange fate.

"what _do_ you get out of this, then?" she asks quietly.

"she's my mother, bonnie."

her name on his tongue has a strange effect on both of them. he closes the gap between them and kisses her on the lips, without permission or apology. he cradles her cheek and kisses her like she was always his for the kissing. but it doesn't feel proprietary. it feels like he's been waiting to do it for a long time. it's funny to think a few days ago she didn't know his name.

she sighs into his mouth as he removes the shawl from her shoulders.

* * *

they kiss for a small eternity, glued to each other by sweat and exhaustion. he doesn't disrobe her any further, he only touches her body furtively, skimming small islands of bare skin before coming back to her face. he loves touching her face. if you follow her features closely, they're rudely asymmetrical, but still beautiful, all the same. he'd like to draw them.

she strokes the back of his neck as he bends down to kiss her lips again and again.

his fingers brush against her knees, parting them slowly. his knuckles caress the inside of her thigh making her heart jump in her throat. but she whispers into his neck. "no. not like this."

and he understands. he removes himself from her.

they fall back, side by side, staring at the canvas, their shoulders touching.

"i'd like to…" she says nervously. "someday. after you've taken me away from this place and bought me dinner. maybe."

klaus laughs and it sounds innocent and boyish for once. "you're wasting your breath, witch. i'm not taking you away. i can't."

"i know," she mumbles, closing her eyes. "but a girl can dream."

* * *

a girl dreams. and in this dreams she burns like a bundle of hay, like a handful of branches. the werewolf kneels by her pyre and weeps. everything tastes like ashes.

but bad dreams eventually melt with the coming of the sun.

* * *

he injects his mother with an almost lethal dose of valerian as she comes towards him to embrace him. her smile is greedy. her eyes glint with a murderous need. he doesn't feel too bad about sticking the needle in her. he knows she won't outright die. her powers will be weakened beyond conscious state and she'll fall into a deep coma. she'll wake up in the middle of the jungle. and maybe she'll survive.

his men listen to him as he's their alpha. some of them defect because they don't like the sudden change of plan. they're old creatures, wary of novelty and all things young. klaus lets them go without killing them. all he wants right now is to get out of the jungle.

bonnie drives the truck haphazardly across the wet trails, glancing from time to time at the werewolf. he doesn't seem capable to do much else anymore. but that's fine. he did his part. now, she's the one taking them away.

* * *

sheila bennett doesn't understand why her granddaughter smells like oranges every night she comes home.


End file.
